The Sickness Unto Death
by tristanackerly
Summary: University AU. Sirius is not keen to take notes for the sick, sweater-wearing boy in his Gender Studies class. However, he soon becomes fascinated by this lonely creature, and does everything in his power to show him that he is more than just his illness. RL/SB [5k reads! Thank you all!]
1. Gender Studies

_When death is the greatest danger, we hope for life; but when we learn to know the even greater danger, we hope for death. When the danger is so great that death becomes the hope, __**then despair is the hopelessness of not being able to die.**_

_**\- Søren**__**Kierkegaard**_

Sirius Black is comfortable at University. It is a place where he can finally thrive without the constraints of etiquette and stiff-backed aristocracy. At university he allows himself to at last breathe in the toxicity of youthful cigarettes, drink coffee when it pleases him, and enjoy the small pleasures of the old school library.

There are a hundred thousand books behind those oak doors, shelved high to the ceiling, a myriad of knowledge at his fingertips. He will not willingly admit it to his friends, but Sirius strongly believes that there is an eternal happiness to be found if ever he became lost in that library. Its ornate wallpaper and squeaking chandeliers and peeling desks hold a multitude of secrets, and he wants to know them all. But he isn't very good at reading, despite his private school education, and tends to appreciate only the simple aesthetic of books rather than their intellectual value.

On this day, however, Sirius is on mission beyond the help of books. Rather than getting lost, as is his favoured pastime, he must find within the teetering shelves of the library. Professor McGonagall has assigned to him a task he thinks is rather beyond his academic capabilities, and he is sure that this is exactly the reason why she has appointed it to him. It's all very well, he thinks, to sit in the back of the class and doodle in his notebook, and accept the consequences in the form of poor grades, but it is quite another to be burdened with the responsibility of someone else's education. Sirius isn't too sure his pathological behaviours will grasp such an obligation. He is determined, of that he is certain, but fears he lacks the appropriate discipline.

Today, the library feels bigger than usual. Sirius is accustomed to spending hours just searching for one particular book (Heaven forbid he will ever ask for help), and despite the library's enormity he has gotten to know its nooks and crannies exceptionally well. However, walking through the double doors, he suddenly feels very small and very lost. He is nervous, he realizes, and he scolds himself for it.

He collects his bearings, self-consciously adjusting his school bag over his shoulder – there is a motorcycle helmet clipped to the strap, banging against his leg as he walks. He has no reason to be nervous. Although, that being said, never has he been asked to be someone's study assistant before.

Sirius strolls passed the librarian's desk (he can feel Mrs Pince's eyes drilling holes into the back of his head at the sight of his muddy boots) and over to the study area in the middle of the library. Surrounded by the books were a collection of desks and armchairs, most of which are filled with students cramming for tests, eyes feverish in the afternoon rain. Sirius stops, surveying them, searching for a boy with sandy hair and wearing a blue jumper…

There he is – Lord, is that a sweater? That's not a _jumper_, that's a _sweater_. Sirius has never known anyone to _voluntarily_ wear a sweater.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling the dry books for assurance. He approaches the boy, who is bent over his notebook, writing furiously. His eyes seldom flicker to an open textbook in front of him and he is inattentively devouring an entire block of chocolate. He has poor posture, Sirius notes, and his handwriting is very messy.

Sirius stands in front of the desk pointedly, but the boy does not acknowledge his presence. Flustered, Sirius clears his throat and the boy looks up, exasperation written across his sharp features. His eyes are brown and old, flecked with honey gold.

"Er – Hi, I'm Sirius," says Sirius loosely, slightly taken aback at how attractive this boy is. He hadn't been warned of that. Had he known, he might have thought to look more presentable. His jeans are a little worse for wear. But there is nothing to be done about it now. "Professor McGonagall said you needed someone to take notes in class for you?" It is not technically a question, but Sirius poses it as one, and the boy in front of him is slightly confused. A cross little knot forms between his eyebrows.

"She sent you? _You're _taking Gender Studies?" he says icily, regarding Sirius with a critical eye. Sirius feels unwelcomely insecure, which is rather a new to him.

Honestly, this kid is wearing a _sweater_, he shouldn't be judging _anybody._

"Yes," he replies indignantly, like it is perfectly normal for a Criminology student to take up Gender Studies as an elective class, though he knows it probably isn't. Sirius refuses to let this boy gain the upper hand of… whatever this is. He takes an empty chair and drags it over noisily, resulting in multiple infuriated glances in his direction. He sits down on the other side of the desk and glances down at the textbook the boy is studying from. Philosophy; _of course._

"Fine. I just need someone to take notes for me, not be my friend," he snaps, returning to his writing.

"Er – okay," Sirius mutters awkwardly. "Why?"

"Because I'm not interested in making friends."

"No, I mean why do you need someone to take notes for you? I would kind of like the know the details of this job description."

The boy meets Sirius' gaze, eyes narrow with what could be suspicion. The piercing stare alarms Sirius slightly and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, looking away.

"I am required to make frequent visits to the hospital and I don't want it to affect my grades," the boy answers tersely, tapping his ball-point pen absently on his wrist for a moment before guiding his attention back to his book.

"Why?" Sirius says again.

"It's none of your business."

Sirius is amazed at the curtness of this boy; he is sharp and hard and Sirius wonders why. He must be severely sick to oblige to frequent hospitalization, so surely he cannot be blamed him for being so aloof. However, he does not look ill. A bit thin perhaps – though that could be a side-effect of his ludicrous sweater – but certainly not ill.

But then the boy coughs into the crook of his elbow, wretchedly and painfully, and Sirius is startled by the abrasive sound. It makes the muscles in Sirius' stomach tense. He suddenly pities this boy, feeling bad now that he has thought poorly of a person who is now apologising for something he clearly cannot control.

"Excuse me."

"Don't trouble yourself," returns Sirius kindly, smiling lightly. "My uncle used to have a cough like that."

"What was wrong with him?" the boy asks, rapt on Sirius now and making him feel even more uneasy, if that were possible.

Sirius shrugs, heavy shoulders and awkward arms. "I don't know. He died of it, though," he elaborates briefly, remembering his uncle as a pack-a-day smoker. Sirius reflects momentarily on why such a death in his family hadn't deterred him from his own smoking.

"Oh. I'm – I'm sorry,"

"Nah, don't be; he was an idiot. And besides, he left me all his money when he died. Which only further proves how ridiculous he was, really," Sirius smirks genially, amused by the boys' stunned reaction.

"Right," is all he relays.

They sit in silence for a long while, both lost in their own thoughts. Sirius is fascinated by this creature; handsome, by all accounts, and probably nice enough if you can humour him. With such a burden on his shoulders, Sirius can understand why he does not wish to make friends. However, Sirius cannot fathom tolerance for such loneliness. Doesn't the boy have any friends at all? He must, at the very least, have a pet, or a fish.

"So – you got a name?" Sirius initiates, quirking an eyebrow, genuinely wondering if this guy has a name or not. It's not written on any of his books or pens. Sirius does not recall Professor McGonagall providing a name.

"Remus."

Sirius jerks at his response. "Like Romulus and Remus?!" he exclaims.

The boy called Remus sighs dangerously and gives a stiff nod. "And you're Sirius; the brightest star in the sky."

"Mmm, that's me; not as bright as they say, I have to admit. I keep forgetting which constellation I'm a part of. You'd think I'd be all hankering for this astrology stuff, but it bores the heck outta me. My mum tried to teach me, but I think I was so reluctant towards it that I sort of blocked it all out," Sirius prattles on, partially to himself.

"You're part of two constellations, actually," Remus clarifies patiently, only half-focused on the rapidly building conversation. Sirius notices that he is concentrating on something else, though can't decipher what it might be. "Canis Major and Orion."

"Oh," says Sirius, blinking stupidly. "My middle name is Orion."

"You have an odd name," Remus agrees, flicking his fringe out of his eyes. "Is your surname astrological as well?"

"Black? No, it's a colour."

"Black isn't a colour, it's a shade."

Sirius rolls his eyes at Remus' pretentious comment. Despite this, he is all the more captivating, for Sirius has never met anyone like Remus, hard and withdrawn, yet easily mollified. Sirius' best mate, James, would call him a nerd, most likely. Lily would probably take to him.

"I better go; I have work in a few hours," Sirius concludes, rising from the chair. "Will you be in class tomorrow?"

Remus looks up at Sirius, eyes darting over his appearance again, though this time less disparagingly. He nods, and when Sirius departs with a farewell, it is not returned. Grumbling and rolling his eyes, Sirius trudges out of the library and into the rain outside, grieving over the complicated situation he has been placed in. On the one hand, he wants to help Remus, because Remus seems motivated by school and it's a shame he cannot attend all of his classes; but on the other hand, this boy is rude and antisocial and Sirius just doesn't get him at all. _This is so unfair_, he thinks childishly to himself.

Sirius finds his motorcycle parked with other student and faculty cars and wipes down the wet seat with a bare hand, though with a fruitless outcome. He ties back his long hair and shoves the helmet on his head. All that remains of the roguish Gender Studies participant is the low purr of a 1952 Vincent Black Shadow and skid marks on the tarmac.

He is found later that afternoon on his back underneath a Mercedes-Benz, a plug in his hand and motor grease on his overalls. Sirius cranes his neck awkwardly beneath the engine, trying to get a better view of the heater return to see what is wrong with it. Temporarily defeated, he rolls out on the creeper and tells James to start the car.

James Potter, a tall, sturdy and bespectacled boy at the end of his teens clambers into the car and turns the ignition. The car rumbles to life and Sirius splutters at the acrimonious smell of the engine, inspecting it with a trained eye. Twenty minutes later, the vehicle is fixed and the two boys disappear from the garage to get some food from the kitchen. As far as workplace kitchens go, the one at the Auto Repair shop is pretty decent, though the fridge is temperamental and none of the chairs match.

James retrieves a large lasagne from the microwave, slices it, and dumps one half unceremoniously onto Sirius' plate, who is eager to savour the marvellous cooking of James' fiancée. There is still grease on Sirius' hands and it is smudged across his cheek and has graced his hair in large clumps. His part-time job at the shop is nothing glamorous, he won't deny, but it keeps his hands busy and the bills paid. And he has the privilege of having his dinners cooked for him by Lily Evans (soon to be Potter), all without the encumbrance of having to live with her.

"I have to take notes for some snotty little berk in my Gender Studies class," Sirius says.

"Why?" James asks, his mouth full of food.

Sirius shrugs weightily. "He has to go to the hospital a lot so he needs someone to keep tabs on what's going on in class," he explains dully.

James makes a face and takes a large gulp of lemonade. "Why go to university if you're just going to be ill all the time?" he wonders.

"Ill people want to have decent jobs too, you know. But he's weird, Prongs. He wears sweaters and coughs terribly and he always looks like he's going to go spare at the next person who touches him."

"What's wrong with him, then?"

"He didn't say," Sirius says. "McGonagall sure knows how to dish out a punishment. I should probably start contributing to her class."

"Does he have any symptoms?" James continues, probably more for Sirius' irritated sake than personal interest.

"He has a nasty cough, otherwise no. Do you think Lily would know what it is?" Sirius inquires.

James shrugs and the conversation is lost to football and then to the Mini Cooper they are repairing next. Meals devoured and hands washed, they return to their work. It is late when Sirius rides home through the rain and the last of winter's slush on the road. His flat is a welcome sight after a long day. He climbs the stairs to the fifth floor, the elevator still out of commission, shaking his sopping hair out of its ponytail. He fits the key into the lock of his door and enters, dumping his helmet on the entrance table and shuffling to the bathroom to wash. Boxes litter the floor of the house, evidence of his recent habitation and general laziness.

Emerging from the shower, long hair damp and curling at the ends, Sirius notices he has two messages on his answering machine. He puts the kettle on and plays them.

_"Hey, Padfoot, it's Peter. Do you have my Ramones album? I can't remember who I lent it to and I need it back. Cheers."_ The tone of the high beep sounds and Sirius snorts. The chances of Peter getting his album back are slim to none. It is never leaving Sirius' gramophone, especially not with that incorrect use of 'who' instead of 'whom.' The next message plays and Sirius is at first shocked by the only freshly familiar voice echoing through his flat.

_"Hi, Sirius. This is Remus Lupin from university. I got your phone number from Professor McGonagall. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I won't be in class tomorrow after all, so if you could take notes for me, that would be wonderful. Thank you."_

Sirius makes a contemplative sound and thinks it is rather cheeky of this Remus Lupin to have gotten his number from a teacher. Usually it is Sirius operating a dastardly scheme to obtain someone's number, yet here _he_ stands on the receiving end of that.

The lecture room for Gender Studies is small in comparison to Sirius' Criminology class. It is cramped and claustrophobic. He bumps elbows with people he doesn't know and receives stern glares from his teacher when she catches him doing someone he shouldn't be. None of his friends take Gender Studies. In fact, he is still coming to terms with why he chose it in the first place. Anthropology may have been more suited, or Psychology.

He slumps moodily in his chair, taking measly notes, much to the amusement of the brunette sitting beside him. He peeks at her extensive handwriting spilling out over five pages and feels guilty, knowing he is letting Remus down. Some note-taker he turned out to be. He has scribbled on two pages and has now resorted to sketching pictures in the margins of his notebook. Professor McGonagall is discussing the concept of non-binary gender, so Sirius draws a series of cartoons at the bottom of the page, explaining the different between sex and gender.

He continues onto a third page when Professor McGonagall changes the topic to cisgender and he writes a definition when she inscribes it on the blackboard. His handwriting is neat and slanted, sloping across the page in a series of black flicks and loops. Years of private school education have not failed him; he has learned all the essential characteristics of a good-mannered young man, his knowledge extending over the full spectrum of acquired etiquette. Sirius walks with perfect posture, knows which forks to use at a restaurant, and how _precisely_ to pull out a lady's chair. It was later in his schooling years with James and Peter when they decided to read about physics, literature and history, realizing the value of books in the progression of their futures. Sirius curses his mother for sending him to such an obnoxious school.

When the class is over, he attaches a short letter to the notes he has taken.

_To Mr Lupin_

_The topic of non-binary gender results in an enthralling discussion. Please find enclosed the original copy of the notes I took in class just for you, to be reviewed at your leisure._

_Cordially Yours,_

_Sirius Black._

Proud of his snark, Sirius retreats to the library to photocopy the lecture's notes for himself. The next day, he removes himself to hand them to Remus, but the haughty sweater-wearing git is nowhere to be found.

In fact, Sirius does not see Remus for next two and a half weeks as the weather develops into a perpetual cloud of overhanging rain and blistering wind. He begins to think he has dreamt this whole Remus Lupin dilemma and has been taking twice the amount of notes for no reason at all.

_To Mr Lupin._

_Did you know feminism is not about seeking power over men? Of course you do._

_There was an ignorant berk in class today who thought it was about women trying to take over the 'dominion of men.' Like there is such a thing. If you ask me, women have held the upper hand for centuries. They're a terrifying lot. My mother could sure give a beating; she could teach them a thing or two._

_What is your stance on equality?_

_And now, the weather – miserable, I say, and the misery will continue for the rest of the week._

_Your obedient note-taker,_

_Sirius Black._

_To Mr Lupin._

_Roses are red_

_Gender Studies is a drag_

_I've no one to talk to_

_I think I'll go stag_

\- _I won't, though. I know you need these notes. I hope you're feeling better._

_Serving his punishment dutifully,_

_Sirius Black._

_To Mr Lupin._

_Roses are red_

_Gender is performative_

_Mass-market romance_

_Is heteronormative_

\- _Please find enclosed new definitions we learned today._

_Sirius Black._

_To Remus Lupin_

_I think the majority of the blokes in this class are taking it to get with the girls. Let me tell you, they have another thing coming._

_I, for one, have a long-awaited hamburger coming for me._

_Absolutely ravenous,_

_Sirius._

_To Remus Lupin_

_How many radical feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb?_

_None, because feminists aren't afraid of the dark. Besides, you don't need a light bulb when you have a glass ceiling._

_I'm the next Karl Marx,_

_Sirius._

Remus Lupin returns to university on a Thursday, much to Sirius' relief. He feels he has been under far too much pressure, taking notes for someone he is not sure even exists. He waves him over to two empty seats at the back of the classroom. He looks different; blanched and twitchy and thin. In the furrows of Remus' face, Sirius can see three weeks of what he assumes was vile hospitalization. He is glad to have kept his promise to take notes for the poor bloke; Sirius cannot imagine how awful it would be to pay for university and not be permitted to go.

Remus sits in the chair besides Sirius. He looks almost charming today despite his pallid features. If it weren't for his absurd sweater, which is far too many different colours, Sirius would very nearly have paid him a compliment if it weren't so abrasive to look at.

"How are you?" he asks instead, casting a wary eye over Remus. Up close, Sirius can see the dark circles under his eyes and the waxy texture of his skin, pulled tight against his cheekbones.

"I've been better," Remus remarks cynically, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, which are deathly pale and presumably cold. His voice is soft, tired. "I've been worse."

"Have you been in hospital all that time?" Sirius says incredulously, keeping his voice low around the students milling into the room.

Remus nods grimly, but says nothing as he pulls out his books and pens, fingers trembling. Sirius has never seen anyone look so fragile. He suddenly feels the intense need to wrap this stranger in his arms and whisper into his hair and concoct a cure for whatever is ailing him.

In an attempt to overcome these strange feelings, he searches through his books for the notes he had taken for Remus, presenting them to him with a proud grin.

"Oh – thank-thank you," Remus mumbles, taking them.

"You're welcome," Sirius says sincerely.

He forgets about the silly drawings he included until _after_ Remus begins to rifle through the papers.

"Did you write letters to me?" Remus says, examining the small pieces of paper stapled to the front of each dated section.

Sirius blushes furiously, feeling foolish. "Yes, I did," he admits. "I have a crappy attention-span."

"You don't say. And you drew in the margins?" Remus continues, eyebrows high with amusement at the quaint drawings Sirius procured.

Sirius awaits a reprimand with baited breath, wishing more than anything that the ground would swallow him whole. To his amazement, Remus chuckles lightly and puts the notes away in his book for safekeeping, saying nothing. Sirius regards him with a bemused expression.

"You're funny," Remus explains simply, smiling.

"What?" Sirius blubbers.

Remus' smile widens for a moment.

"Most people think I'm an idiot," says Sirius.

"Well, you're certainly that," Remus approves.

Sirius smirks and Professor McGonagall addresses the class. He leans down and digs into his bag for his reading glasses. Sirius is not ashamed to have reading glasses; it's not his fault he cannot see the page in front of him. If James can wear glasses every waking moment, then Sirius can endure them for two hours a day. However, he catches the mien on Remus' face when he puts them on and he is immediately embarrassed, wondering how effectively he can dig that hole with just pens at his disposal.

Year after year, early March proves to Sirius that the weather in the great nation of Britain truly can be a depressing affair. While it at last ceases to snow, the rain is ever persistent and sometimes he even braves the bus to university for it isn't worth it to get drenched on his motorbike every day. He longs for the arrival of summer; for beaches and t-shirts and socks abandoned under beds.

Sirius suspects, however, that Remus Lupin rather enjoys the cold that thunders at the beginning of spring. Wrapped snugly in his infinite supply of sweaters and coats and hats and scarves, he is typically pink-nosed and beaming, which Sirius admits is extremely sweet. Remus' sweaters may be as ludicrous as ever, patched in several places and falling apart, but his pink nose and cheeks and lips are exceptionally cute. Sirius has caught himself thinking about it on multiple occasions, and unconsciously drags Remus outside for more cigarette breaks than are probably necessary just so he can witness it more often. He always offers his cigarettes, but Remus never accepts them, always standing a healthy distance away from the toxic fumes. Sirius quickly learns that perhaps it isn't a good idea to smoke around a sick person, so he stops.

They have taken to studying in the library together, however, and Remus suddenly becomes Sirius' primary companion, spending more time with him than anyone else. He has never had someone to bond with over radical ideas and he adores the mutual ground upon which he and Remus stand. Remus is intellectually stimulating and bristling with enough concepts and statistics to sate Sirius' hunger for knowledge for another lifetime beyond this one. And through their long philosophical discussions about Kierkegaard and sometimes quantum mechanics, he soon grasps that Remus' sarcasm is quirky and funny. His aloofness is a defence mechanism, designed to hide his kindness and compassion. He is afraid to be hurt, and to hurt others in return, and Sirius never imagined he would ever meet someone he could empathize with. He apprehends the desolation of sickness and the inner battle of chronic pain and suffering. He no longer pities Remus, but respects him. Sirius wishes he could be that strong.

The two boys feed off each other, their conversations and company like a roaring tremor through one another's lives. Sirius begins to miss Remus when he disappears to the hospital, and consoles himself with diligent note-taking, a skill that he has developed admirably. He shamelessly charms Remus with drawings and letters to make him laugh, discovering he loves nothing more in this world than to hear Remus laugh.

Still he does not know why Remus is constantly unwell, but knows better than to ask. As the weeks trickle by, Sirius eases the tension between them by testing Remus' boundaries. Sirius finds it so easy and wonderful to _know_ Remus and to understand this boy who is so unlike anyone he has encountered before.

And so March dissipates seemingly unnoticed that year. Sirius is too preoccupied with making a new friend to even remember James' birthday. Luckily, Lily dutifully organizes a small rendezvous at a pub, knowing expenses are better saved for their upcoming wedding.

"It's my best mate's birthday this weekend," Sirius tells Remus after class one Tuesday, shaking himself into his coat. He takes a moment to size himself up against Remus, as has become a habit of his, for Remus is preposterously tall. Sirius is used to being the short one thanks to James' height, but Remus is_ even_ _taller_. Sirius suspects that if he were to roll up his trousers, he would find stilts under there.

"We're going for drinks; care to join us?"

Remus casts him a stricken expression, his eyes immediately rejecting the notion of meeting Sirius' friends. This does not deter Sirius' eagerness, however. He grabs his books and elbows Remus affectionately, daring his puppy-like eyes to win over his new friend.

"If I will not be imposing, then okay," Remus submits a little ruefully, looking down at his battered shoes as they make their way slowly to the library, savouring the rare sunshine outside. "What are your friends like? You always speak of them, but I learn nothing."

Sirius scratches his chin thoughtfully for a moment, taking note of the five o'clock shadow there in need of shaving. "I don't know," he admits. "How do you describe the most important people in your life? James is sort of… my brother. We think we're genuinely distantly related, but we haven't looked into it enough to find out for sure. Peter is – well, he's Peter; he likes bobble hats and has no emotional filter. He's fun at parties, though. And Lily; you'll probably like Lily. She's James' fiancée and a total catch, if that isn't too bold to say. She's really nice and sweet and funny and she does one hell of a brew."

"How did you all meet?" Remus pursues as they enter the warmth and comfort of the library. They take their usual seats in blue armchairs around a low table, Remus removing layers of his clothing in the now stifling heat.

"James, Pete and I met at boarding school, so we've been mates for years. We shared a dorm and everything. And Lily we met through a mutual friend, Severus. They lived really close when they were kids and they grew up together. He went to boarding school with us and introduced us to her during the summer holidays. James was smitten, of course, and that made things go a bit sour,"

"So you aren't friends with… _Severus_ anymore?" Remus processes the name unusually, rolling it against his tongue. He takes out a packet of crisps from his bag and two sandwiches. The boy eats like he has been starved for most of his life, Sirius has noticed. He just eats, and eats, and eats.

Sirius shakes his head. "It was a bit silly, really. He held a grudge against James for hooking up with Lily because he was sweet on her too. It's not her fault she was never into him," he says. "But yeah, those are my closest friends. There'll be others at the pub, too. And if I can give you a bit of advice; when it doubt, offer Mary a shot of tequila; should definitely make things exciting."

Remus laughs, opening his Gender Studies textbook and propping it on his knee as he indulges in a peanut butter sandwich on top of his crisps. "Well, your friends seem quite unusual," he says before coughing horribly. Sirius waits patiently for him to stop. Sometimes he does not even notice Remus' coughing. "Do you think they'll like me?"

Sirius watches Remus carefully, from the humble expression on his face to the way his feet snap together with sudden humiliation. He had let that question slip out without meaning to, and Sirius finds this curious. He has been studying Remus since their first lesson together and has come to comprehend him relatively well without asking too many nosy questions. But it always surprises Sirius how guarded Remus is. It is one thing to be reserved and quiet, but quite another to abandon any emotional charge. This question now makes Sirius wonder if Remus finds his presence comforting. That would be astonishing, for sure. Sirius finds he only ever makes people _uncomfortable_.

"I don't see why not," he finally says gently, putting on his glasses.


	2. Chest Pains

Remus Lupin has had anxiety all his life. It is something he tolerates, much like he tolerates his hospitalization and the fact that his next door neighbour plays drums at three o'clock in the morning. He was once given counselling for it, but now has little hope of affording such luxuries. With medication, rent, and university to pay for, he can't even buy himself a new pair of shoes, which is quickly becoming a necessity.

It is on the weekend of James Potter's nineteenth birthday that Remus' anxiety simmers on the edge of a catastrophic implosion. His chest hurts with the thought of meeting new people. He hasn't ever really had any friends, and people who present him such an intention are terrifying. He does not wish to be abandoned; he does not wish to play the fool again. Everyone reproves his independence; his mother, father, teachers... even Sirius has his little way of cocking his head to the side and biting his lip when Remus only ever mentions past school friends. This in particular Remus does not think on. Of all the rebukes from all the people, Sirius' is the worst. He isn't sure why. Perhaps it is Sirius' eyes, always studying him, searching for clues and answers that Remus cannot give. He can feel Sirius figuring him out.

Despite so many shaken heads and promises of support, Remus doesn't mind his solitary life, ill or not. It may be hard and merciless and provide little gratification, but he would rather suffer it alone than with friends to bother with his broad span of emotional and physical suffering. This ailment is his to bear and no one else ought to be plagued by it. His parents constantly calling him is evidence enough of Remus' displeasure at sharing his trials. They call him before he departs for the party.

"It's so wonderful that you're making friends, sweetheart," his mother says. He can hear the tears in her eyes, her throat thick with them, turning his stomach with guilt and bile. Remus composes himself against her, knowing better than to work his mother into an emotional outburst of 'why don't you stay with us for a few weeks?'

"Please, mum," he moans, keeping tabs on the clock in his tiny kitchen. He moves his mouth away from the receiver to cough for a few seconds; his mother doesn't like to hear it, even if it's obvious he's doing it. "I've only made one friend."

"But you're socialising! It's always good to know you're with other people. I worry about you, alone in that flat,"

Remus makes a discontented noise and steers the conversation away from his home life, aware what his mother will start inquiring after; inviting over his new friends to her house, organising ludicrous picnics and the like.

When he hangs up, Remus wonders if Sirius Black really _is_ his friend. _Is this how friends are made?_ He isn't sure. Remus is sure that the world is round and that his opinion of Aristotle is somewhat vapid, but it's been so long since someone has voluntarily spoken to him and kept in consistent communication that he has forgotten whether or not there is linear pattern to making friends. There is no set equation, he understands that at least, but still he would like a pattern - anything to make this easier to follow.

After some deliberation, Remus comes to the conclusion that perhaps he and Sirius became friends purely out of chance. _Fate? _He muses bitterly, hating the concept of the word the moment it is perused. He shuts it down immediately. There is no such thing.

The doorbell rings and he pulls himself out of his reverie to answer it, suddenly aware that he still isn't ready for the party. He has successfully put on trousers and a shirt, but beyond that he is somewhat lacking in proper attire.

Sirius is at the door, unusually donned in a collared shirt and dress shoes. He carries a thick, padded leather jacket over his shoulders and a motorcycle helmet under his arm. He grins widely at Remus, sauntering inside, not leaving muddy footprints behind him for once. Remus' heart hammers in his chest at the sight of Sirius actually dressed _nicely,_ and at the helmet, which can only mean one thing.

"I thought you were going to pick me up in your car!" he exclaims in exasperation, pointing wildly at it, his teeth already threatening to break the skin on his lip.

Sirius chuckles, setting the helmet on the tiny dining table in the kitchen, taking in what little of Remus' home there is to see. "I don't own a car," he clarifies, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And you don't have to worry; I've got a helmet for you as well."

Remus gapes at Sirius. A motorcycle? With his lungs? And his anxiety? It is a death sentence. However, when he shamefully points this out, Sirius smiles all the more broadly and says; "I'll go by the speed limit, if it makes you feel better."

It doesn't.

Remus excuses himself and goes to his bedroom, grumbling and swearing under his breath, affronted by this adrenaline-loving biker with long hair. _I know I need someone, but this guy is ridiculous - I need someone safe._ Sirius is a chaotic mess of private school education and punk rock literary enthusiast and Remus is somewhat incensed to admit that he likes him. He is nice and sympathetic and writes notes in his annoyingly perfect handwriting for Remus when he is away, and while all of this is well and good in its own right, what affects Remus the most is the way Sirius' company is easy. Remus can breathe around him, which says a lot, given his condition, and given Sirius' disgusting smoking habit. However, the latter has dramatically ceased recently, Remus notes.

What he determines is that there is very little about Sirius that he _doesn't_ like.

Perhaps he doesn't like the way Sirius leaves dirty tracks behind him, or the way he studies Remus with a practiced eye – however, this is up for debate, for Remus has longed for someone, anyone to understand him the way Sirius does – and perhaps he doesn't like Sirius' casual elegance when Remus is hunched over and stiff.

Above all, Remus thinks, is that he struggles with Sirius' enigma. He has considered people all his life, watching them with interest, or just out of boredom, and so it is against his better judgement to be understood by someone that he in turn does not understand. It is unnerving, to be frank, and Remus angrily wishes Sirius were more direct.

Remus finishes dressing and, straightening his poor posture, he emerges from the bedroom to find Sirius sitting at the dining table, waiting patiently. He smiles, and it makes Remus' knees weak. It is a symptom he endeavours to ignore, but to little affect. He firmly believes Sirius' smile could bring down a dynasty without even trying. It certainly brings down his defences enough.

"Okay – let's get this over with," Remus agrees gruffly, grabbing his coat from the peg by the door. He fingers a hole in the sleeve.

"Good man," Sirius croons, clapping Remus on the back as they depart. The sudden contact sends a wave of nausea through his stomach and Remus takes a moment to ensure he will not double over from the impact.

He locks up the house and follows Sirius down two flights of stairs. Remus pats his pockets gingerly, making sure he has everything he needs; wallet, keys, inhaler… He smooths back his hair with trembling fingers at the sight of Sirius' motorbike, which is sleek and admittedly gorgeous, but still frightening. Sirius tosses him a second helmet and Remus almost drops it in his crack to catch it. He unenthusiastically squashes it over his head. It is tight around the temples and already he has trouble breathing through the mouthpiece.

Sirius throws his right leg over the bike and, using his entire body to do so, hurls the engine to life. The bike growls against the pavement, eager to be on the road. He motions to Remus and the taller boy reluctantly clambers onto the back of the monstrosity, not heeding the throbbing in his chest. The engine purrs, warm and humming beneath him like a predatory beast. Without warning, the bike is thrown forward and Remus clings to Sirius' waist for dear life as they scream out of the driveway and down the road. He is terrified at first, of getting injured or dying or flattening a bird, but then it is exhilarating and Remus understands why Sirius doesn't own a car.

They arrive at the pub in London grinning and, in Remus' case, slightly out of breath. He pauses to relieve the ache in his chest with his inhaler and then trails behind Sirius inside where it is warm and claustrophobic, like walking into liquid gold and smoking wood. Remus casts an eye about the room, surveying the varnished table tops and red barstools. The pub is bustling with people and Remus' nervousness peaks precariously. He inhales sharply to prepare himself, but only accomplishes making himself cough. He watches Sirius wave to a group of people at a table in the far corner. The two boys walk over and Remus collects his bearings, trying to quash the daunting feelings that come with meeting new people.

"Hey guys!" Sirius cries delightedly, dumping himself into an empty seat. "This is Remus."

Remus is engulfed in various greetings from several strangers, each of them as attractive as the last. Sirius introduces them all graciously as Remus sits down beside him and is intrigued by the different characteristics he can identify them with. James Potter is all messy hair, long limbs and glasses. He grins broadly and shakes Remus' hand enthusiastically, his skin even darker against Remus' pale complexion. His fiancée, Lily Evans, is charm and fire, her smile warm and her voice pleasant. Peter Pettigrew is adulterated humour and already two beers into the night, smiling at Remus in a way that is unusually comforting. Marlene McKinnon is elegant curls and curves and grace. She dares a kiss on Remus' cheek because she is sitting close to him. Mary MacDonald is stiff-backed, old-fashioned and stunning, and Remus isn't sure whether to smile or flee. Alice and Frank Longbottom are referred to as a couple at all times, no matter their instance, for there are married now and must be taken in with solidarity. Remus feels overwhelmed.

It is an extraordinary thing to be accepted by others, and it is not a feeling with which Remus is familiar. But for the first time in his life, nobody asks about his cough, or why he carries an inhaler. Nobody comments on his eloquent pattern of speech, his shabby shoes, or the way he twitches when someone brushes him. For the first time in his short existence, Remus feels wanted. Part of it makes him want to run and hide, and another encourages him to stay, and take a chance on happiness.

He is not an avid drinker, but he cossets himself with two beers during the course of the evening. He does his best to interact with everyone, but finds himself wandering back to Sirius every time a word with someone else is exchanged, the mingling becoming too much for him. Sirius is his safety-net, for these people are like an exotic coffee and Remus bears a passing resemblance to lukewarm tea.

He likes Lily, however, who is boisterous and kind. She sympathises with him as effortlessly as Sirius, only much more verbally. She generates a glowing aura of empathy and they share a love for books, fine wine and astrology. Remus is immediately drawn to her, breathing in her positive energy for solace and buoyancy. She is a petite woman with red hair and glittering green eyes and sweet freckles, but those do not factor in her beauty to fathom strangers.

The night unfolds in an anarchic blur of mingling and laughing. Remus gathers his manners and social attributes and he charms everyone with his peculiar sense of humour and contagious smile, though he is not aware of such. What Remus has never truly measured about himself is his attractiveness. He is handsome, by all accounts, but it is his humble demeanour and gentle way of being that pulls others in.

He overhears James and Sirius mentioning him, and torn between eavesdropping and an intense need to be liked, all he hears is James say; "–it. However did you become friends with him, Padfoot? He's a good bloke, you know, and you're – well, you."

Sirius elbows his friend sharply and Remus stops listening, blushing hopelessly. At least they are not averse to his company.

His brain his buzzing and he is just beginning to long for home when James stands up and shoos everybody away from the pub with fond gestures. Farewells are met with hugs and kisses, even for Remus, who is left with lipstick prints on his cheeks from Lily and Marlene and Mary. James grasps him by the hand again and promises to invite him over for a barbeque when the weather is warmer. Lily intercepts this offer with lunch and coffee next weekend, scolding her fiancé for his useless attempt at good manners. Remus thanks them and vows he will be there. They take down each other's phone numbers and bid goodbye.

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Sirius warbles as they trade the cosy pub for the icy cold outside. Spring has not yet settled into what is left of winter. Remus hates to see it go. They walk over to Sirius' motorcycle, putting on their helmets.

"You have some really wonderful friends," Remus mumbles through the mouthpiece. "Wait, you shouldn't be driving!"

"Come off it; I've only had one beer. Sit your arse down,"

Remus gives Sirius a stern glare through the visor, trying to recall if it truly had been only one before climbing onto the machine. Sirius seems sober enough. He again uses his entire body to jump the engine. It roars to life and Remus can already feel the adrenaline coursing through his blood, screaming to be released.

They pelt down the motorway, bypassing cars and buses in a blur of red and yellow and green. It is a slightly ethereal experience to ride a motorbike. It's like you are circumnavigating the world on a different wavelength, or a slightly obscure linear perspective. Remus doesn't know what he is taking more pleasure from; riding the bike, or being in such close proximity to Sirius.

They arrive back at Remus' flat before midnight and he scrambles off the bike awkwardly, his legs like jelly. Sirius tugs off his helmet, his black hair a mess that he does not hasten to flatten. Remus tries to arrange his own, but it only sticks out at odd angles, making him look ridiculous. He envies Sirius for the ease in which he pulls off being a scruffy punk.

"So, are you going to invite me in for a drink?" Sirius asks lazily, switching off the engine.

Remus blinks, not apprehending the custom to invite people to his home after a night out. He thinks desperately of his bed and his own solitary thoughts, but does not want to be rude. He nods stiffly and Sirius goes upstairs with him, the click of his shoes sending a quaking shudder through every thought that passes Remus' head. It is not a natural sound; Remus is accustomed to Sirius' heavy footing in combat boots.

When they make it to Remus' door, he forgets which key is the correct one and drops them in his endeavour to find it, hating himself more with every passing second.

It is hard, to be withdrawn and anxious. Every human being is a threat to his personal space and every word exchanged with another is a mark upon his existence. Remus has many reasons for choosing not to make friends, and his condition may take up permanent residence at the top of his list, but to him there is nothing more terrifying than interacting with others, knowing they potentially hold your future in their destructive hands.

Yet here he stands with Sirius, inviting him to his flat.

Inside it is eerily cold and Remus immediately hastens to the kitchen to find mugs while Sirius drops himself luxuriously on the sofa, inspecting a hole where some of the stuffing is escaping. Remus finds two mugs in his sink and washes them thoroughly, trying to ignore the chips on the rims and the fact that one of them has been cracked completely in half and is now held together with super glue. He puts the kettle on and then catches Sirius' quizzical look over the head of the sofa.

"Tea?" is all the boy questions.

_Fuck._

"I-I don't have any beer," Remus mutters, humiliation like a burning pedestal of poverty with a plaque signed with his name. His fridge is empty save for a jar of aging mayonnaise and leftover pasta from his dinner. His stomach churns with festering disgrace.

"Ah, too bad," Sirius says. "Probably for the best though."

"Would you still like tea?" At least he has tea. Remus doesn't have bread or vegetables, but damn his decency if he doesn't have tea.

Sirius nods and Remus continues to rummage through his predominately empty cupboards for teabags, unable in his anxiety to recall where he last put them. He eventually finds a small box and a pot of sugar. He enquires if Sirius takes milk. He doesn't, thank you, just sugar is fine. Which is fortunate, for Remus discovers he does not have milk on top of everything else.

The kettle begins to whistle noisily and Remus rescues it from the stove, switching off the gas faster than is necessary. He sets the tea on the rickety coffee table by the sofa and prays Sirius has not noticed that one of its legs is bound together with duct tape.

Remus is conscious of how poor he really is, but it is never truly emphasized until he has guests, which isn't a common occurrence. With Sirius sitting in his beaten up sofa in his pathetic-looking lounge room with a television that doesn't work, Remus feels dreadfully embarrassed of his financial situation. Marrow-deep, stomach-in-knots embarrassed, and he despises it. Sometimes he thinks he should never have left home.

But Sirius doesn't say a word about the peeling wallpaper or the lack of heating. He sits back contently, blowing on his tea as though he has just found himself a new home. Remus is relieved when all Sirius asks is if he enjoyed himself.

"I did. Very much. Your friends are lovely people," Remus replies timidly, clasping his cold hands around his mug. He tries to stop them from shaking. This is surreal, to have someone else in his house. He can hear it stirring with a ghostly interest at the presence of a stranger. But Remus likes Sirius; he does not wish for them to fall back to being strangers.

"Why do they call you Padfoot?" he puts forth, remembering the odd namesake James had referred to Sirius by.

Sirius looks perturbed at the question at first, but then his face breaks into a grin, "We've all got nicknames from back when we were at school together, and they sort of stuck. James just blurted out 'Padfoot' one afternoon when I snuck up and scared him when he was chatting up some girl. I'm light-footed, apparently,"

"In combat boots?" Remus muses, smiling.

"It was back when I wore the appropriate footwear for school. Afterwards, the nickname became sort of redundant, but we didn't stop using it," Sirius elaborates with a shrug.

"And James is… Prongs?"

"Lily stabbed him with a fork when they first met. He flirted with her a bit, which she didn't like." Remus winces at the thought of James' hand with a fork sticking out of it. He shudders and motions for Sirius to continue. "Peter is Wormtail. When we were thirteen, he dressed up as a rat for Halloween, and his tail was so grotesque that it legitimately looked like a worm had grown out of his backside; funniest Halloween I can remember."

Remus chuckles and dares the question, "What would you give me for a nickname?"

Sirius strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment before answering. Remus doesn't know why he brought it up; his curiosity hasn't often bested him in such a way. "I think Moony would suit you," Sirius admits.

"Moony?" Remus reiterates, wrinkling his nose. "Why?"

"Well, your name for starters; 'Lupin' literally translates to 'wolf' in Latin. And 'Remus,' according to the story, was raised by wolves. You're the closest thing a human being will ever come to being a werewolf, my friend." Sirius folds his arms smugly, proud of his deduction.

"So you're a Latin enthusiast?" Remus teases. "Very well, I accept."

"We are very pleased to have you, Messr Moony." They clink their mugs together sincerely.

Two more cups of tea later, and they are deep into a discussion about whether or not the moon landing was faked. Sirius insists that it was, but Remus cannot abide by his lack of faith in humanity to discover otherworldly instances. They are laughing, finding warmth within each other even though it is cold in the flat. Remus and Sirius share so many differences, and yet they are the same. Remus has never known what it feels like to bond with someone else on an emotional level and he finds it strangely overwhelming.

Soon, it is well past midnight and Remus has turned the subject onto literature, fascinated about Sirius heartbreaking issue with reading. The boy is sullen about being unable to pay attention to a book, but says he does not let it keep him from the library, especially since it is the only place he can actually access any sort of knowledge that isn't Peter's obsession with the Roman Empire or Lily's enthusiasm about cupcake recipes.

"Would you like to borrow some of my books?" Remus suggests hopefully. He has always wanted someone to share his books with.

"Alright. But I'm warning you now, there's a chance you won't ever get them back," Sirius says.

Remus chuckles and leaves his friend in the lounge room. He goes to his bedroom where he has crammed three crooked bookshelves to a precarious level just to host the hundreds and hundreds of books he owns. He takes five minutes to sort through them, taking down only half a dozen because he knows Sirius has only his bike to carry them home on; _A Farewell to Arms, The Bell Jar, The Hobbit, The Count of Monte Christo, Hamlet, _and _The Illiad._

When he returns to Sirius clutching the stack of books, he finds the other boy fast asleep on the arm of the sofa, his head buried in the crook of his arm and his tea left abandoned on the floor. Remus hesitates apprehensively, unsure of how is supposed to react to someone falling asleep on his sofa. He feels guilty for having kept Sirius up so late. He was never one for sleeping long hours, and so didn't realize Sirius would probably be in bed by this time of the night.

Remus thinks for a few moments before setting the books on the coffee table, which wobbles under the abrupt weight. He collects the mugs, empties them into the sink, and goes to the back of his flat where there is a linen cupboard with all of two blankets and some cleaning supplies inside. He retrieves the one blanket that has not been attacked by moths and shakes it out, coughing desolately at the dust. He also sacrifices one of his pillows, knowing Sirius is likely to wake during the night and find his neck stiff from the armrest. Remus drapes the blanket over Sirius and leaves the pillow near his head.

He is suddenly hyperaware of Sirius' lack of movement. This boy, who is a dizzying blur of actions and twitching and leg-bumping, is oddly still on Remus' sofa. He is like the eye of a hurricane, Remus thinks. There is chaos surrounding Sirius, yet in the centre of it all he is completely immobile. There is always noise and debris creating havoc, and so no one can see to his centre, but Remus can see; he see's tranquillity and quiet, and through that he feels the dryness of books and he smells motor oil and expensive cologne. Desperate scents to hide the truth. Remus sees an unearthly silence of despair in Sirius, and understands it well.

It is late when Remus rises. He rolls over groggily in his sheets, covering his face from the white glow of the overcast sky bursting through his window. The air is thin and cold around his face. He buffs his eyes sluggishly and inhales the morning frost, but his throat closes against his breath. He rubs his chest distractedly, ears attentive to the other room where he hears the kettle whistling and the sounds of activity in the kitchen. In fact, he can _smell _some _delicious_ activity in the kitchen.

Remus sits up in his bed, the springs squeaking under the strain. He endeavours another deep breath, but his throat resists and he proceeds to cough as though his lungs are trying to escape him. The air is like swallowing ice water. He rummages about the room for his inhaler, coughing, gasping for breath and knocking several books off his shelves in a desperate struggle to find it. His heart constricts when he remembers it is still in the pocket of his coat, which is on the peg by the door. He sits down again, attempting to calm his coughing fit, but it does no good. He needs his inhaler; else there are worse things to come. With considerable effort, he groans and continues coughing, knowing Sirius will at last have to witness the agonizing humiliation of his condition.

Remus throws himself out the door. He stumbles, ignores the stricken look Sirius sends him from the kitchen, and flings himself to where his coat his hanging on its peg. He drops to his knees, wheezing and spluttering, his vision blurring, sockets throbbing from the pressure behind his eyes at the strength it takes to not choke on his own retching. He retrieves his inhaler from the pocket just as Sirius runs over, kneeling down on the floor beside Remus and taking him by the shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he cries, but Remus is only concerned with the medication at last available to him. He can feel his heart slowing, his chest tightening, his throat closing over his last brutal gasps.

He doesn't reply, his breath coming in heavy, aching rasps as he shakes the inhaler, puts the mouthpiece between his lips, and gives the trigger two stiff presses. Watery air rushes into his lungs mercifully and he breathes in hungrily, his eyesight returning with streaming tears of pain.

It takes Remus a full ten minutes to finally recover, his breathing finally steadying as he rests with his back against the front door. Sirius sits with him, eyes watchful and expression grieving, not comprehending. Remus has seen the same look only on his mother's face and so it is bizarre to see it on Sirius'. He did not expect for Sirius to care, in the sense that Remus forgets that people can be sympathetic. He feels foolish nonetheless, wishing the ground would swallow him so he didn't have to deal with the mortification of the hundred and one things that are the matter with him.

"Are you all right?" Sirius finally says when he sees his friend has recovered. His eyes dart frantically over Remus in case something else happens.

"I'm fine," Remus utters, exhaling gently.

He moves to stand, but Sirius is quick to respond. He is on his feet and offering Remus' his hand in two seconds flat. Remus accepts it gratefully and brushes himself down self-consciously in his pyjamas. Sirius is still dressed in his clothes from last night, the shirt rumpled now and the top buttons undone. Remus wonders if he'll start heaving again just at the sight of Sirius' collarbones poking behind the white fabric.

"I-I made you breakfast," Sirius says, gesturing to the kitchen where he has just taken out a tray of scones.

Now that the worst is over, Remus attends to his more primary needs such as hunger. His stomach is burning and he feels weak. He has not eaten since dinner the night before, which his doctor would not approve of. Walking to the kitchen, he draws in the homely smell of scones and coffee and looks at Sirius quizzically.

"Where did you get the ingredients to make all of this?" he says as Sirius bustles about, taking out plates and opening a new jar of jam.

"I woke up early, so I went down to the shop," he replies, ushering Remus to the dining table.

"You didn't have to spend money…" Remus starts pathetically, sitting down weightily, feeling the wooden chair resist him.

"It's nothing," Sirius dismisses, smiling kindly.

Remus is now even more aware of how poor he is. He has not had scones since he lived with his parents. However, he is grateful for Sirius' generosity and puts some jam on one, his stomach churning with hunger.

"I don't know how you have your coffee, so I took an educated guess according to what you order at the café," Sirius adds, tucking his hair behind his ear handsomely.

Remus sips it gingerly. "It's perfect," he confesses, and Sirius grins broadly.

Too famished to talk anymore, Remus does his best not to hoover down the scones in his plight to not pass out. They are surprisingly wonderful. He did not take Sirius to be a cook; his biker aesthetic does not allow for such assumptions. Still, he has been surprising Remus quite often these days.

Scones obliterated to the final crumb, Sirius retreats to the sofa to finish his coffee while Remus attempts discretion to take his morning medication. He catches Sirius hunting for the television remote and turns crimson, declaring that there is little point, as the television does not work.

"Oh," says Sirius woefully, sitting back down again. He eyes Remus picking out pills in the kitchen carefully before adding; "I don't mean to be nosy, but do you have asthma?"

Remus shoots Sirius a meaningful look as he wrestles with the medication foil. He nods brusquely and then does not look at Sirius. He knows there is little sense in being ashamed, but it is difficult to be otherwise when here in his home sits a boy who is broad-shouldered, healthy and unabashed by anything. Remus does not want to admit that he is jealous of Sirius, but it is difficult when he compares Sirius to how little he truly has.

"Is that why you're always in hospital?" Sirius asks warily.

Remus shakes his head. "I've been hospitalized because of it, but it isn't the reason I'm always going." He coughs into his fist for a few seconds and then proceeds to finally take his meds, swallowing them two at a time with his coffee. He is thankful that Sirius does not question the pills as well.

"Will you ever tell me why?"

Remus looks up from over his coffee, searching Sirius' eyes for… something. Perhaps reassurance. There has never been a particular reason why Remus doesn't say anything about his illness. He is averse to others caring for him, he understands that much about himself, but he has let Sirius in now, and there are a number of good things that could come of informing him. Yet, he does not disclose his illness.

"I'm visiting the doctor on Monday," Remus relates slowly, dodging the question. "So I won't be in class until Wednesday."

"I'll take notes for you," Sirius promises. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the phone rings, loud and obtrusive in the morning quiet.

Remus answers it, apologising for his rudeness, already knowing who it is. His mother calls him three times a day.

"Hi, honey," she hums sweetly. "How are you? Did you have a good time last night?" He can hear the slight panic in her voice receding as she speaks now that she is assured her son did not die in the middle of the night. Remus appreciates the way she hides her fretting.

"Yeah, it was great," Remus tells her. Sirius is watching him intently and it's slightly unnerving. "Listen, mum, can I call you back? I have someone over."

"Do you really?!" she exclaims delightfully. "Who is it?"

"Just… a friend. Mum, don't start this now," Remus grumbles, turning away from Sirius to cover his burning cheeks.

"Alright, I'll talk to you later,"

He hangs up, blushing deeply, apologising again.

"Does she call often?" Sirius asks as Remus joins him on the sofa.

"Three times a day," Remus admits.

Sirius whistles, impressed. "Why?"

"To make sure I haven't died,"

Sirius face falls, a hard knot forming between his dark eyebrows. Remus wonders what is bringing on his outburst of honesty. He does not wish to confide in Sirius, and yet simultaneously he wants him to know everything. He wants to share his life with the punk Criminology major in combat boots.

"Is your disease life-threatening?" Sirius whispers in awe. Remus notices something shift behind his eyes, like a dark cloud passing over.

He shrugs awkwardly. He has never really thought about it. "I haven't got much of a life to threaten, but it is," he says simply and brutally.

Remus doesn't recall when Sirius started hugging him, tightly and wholly, his body pressed against Remus in a distraught challenge to relay a profound sense of sympathy. Remus is taken aback at first, frozen by his inability to respond, but Sirius' arms move stiffly around his shoulders and he brings his arms up, returning the embrace with shocked indifference – until Sirius tightens gently around him and Remus is met with an uncontrollable need for physical affection. The desire overwhelms him, shudders his heart and envelopes him. No one has hugged Remus since he was young; he has always felt uncomfortable with physical affection.

But not from Sirius. It makes Remus' heart pound and he wonders how the entire world does not hear its tremor.

When Sirius leaves later that morning with the small stack of Remus' books, they embrace again. Remus never wants to let go.

He has work that afternoon so Remus sets about preparing himself an early lunch. He resorts to the fridge for what is left of his pasta, but upon opening it, he discovers more than just old mayonnaise and leftover dinner. There is an almost full carton of milk, a dozen eggs, bacon, a bag of apples and oranges, butter, an entire lettuce, half a dozen tomatoes, and various cheeses. Guilt sits in Remus' stomach like a lump of metallic rock. He opens the pantry and finds three boxes of tea, two loaves of bread, several tinned vegetables, a bag of potatoes, a fresh jar of coffee, a tin of biscuits, a large selection of chocolate bars, rolled oats, a jar of peanut butter, three large packets of crisps, pre-mixed custard powder, and a bag of flour.

He falls to the ground and weeps.


	3. White Walls

Sirius Black sees things differently now, and Lily knows it. She watches as something in the back of his eyes shifts; something changes. She would almost describe it as pieces of a jigsaw puzzles being finally fitted together, but it is more than that; the jigsaw has been rearranged. The picture is altogether unfamiliar to him now, and he is scared. Monsters-under-the-bed, I-didn't-study-for-my-exam petrified.

In a desperate plea for understanding, Sirius has come to Lily. She keeps her eyes on him as he paces muddy footprints on her sitting room floor that is so clean even her sister would have dared enter her home. And yet, she does not mind. Here is a boy who needs her help and it is not in Lily's nature to refuse someone comfort. Clean floors and snobby sisters be damned, Sirius Black has come to her, not James, for guidance. He goes to James when he needs tight-lipped, brotherly advice with assertive glares and squared shoulders and beers-in-hand. But Sirius is suddenly just a boy again.

"He needs someone, Lily," he wails, turning to face her. His runs his hands shakily through his long hair, eyebrows so tightly knitted together it would be a wonder to see it without a crease. There are no tears, but Lily can see them all the same. "He's all alone in that tiny flat and practically no food. I mean, you can tell he's a bit short on funds just from the state of his shoes, but how was I to know it was _this bad?_"

"Why isn't he with his family? They're not – they're not_…" _she trails off fretfully, the thought of Remus without his parents like a tidal wave of grief ready to thrash her should Sirius provide the wrong answer.

"That's just the thing! His mum calls him three times a day to make sure he hasn't _died_," he says, collapsing heavily into the sofa beside her after ten minutes of dirtying her carpet. Sirius leans his head against the back of the sofa, staring at the white ceiling as though it will provide him with an answer to his new problem.

Lily chews her newly manicured thumbnail, agitated. What could be wrong with this poor boy? Before James' birthday at the pub, Sirius had warned them all not to breathe a _word_ about Remus' condition, for he was ashamed of it. Lily had caught sight of the inhaler in his pocket, though, and her heart had ached at the sound of that brutal cough.

"Did he finally say anything about what's wrong with him?" she asks, mentally scanning a long list of symptoms and potential illness associated with coughing and inhalers, pushing her nursing skills into potential overdrive. There was asthma, obviously, but Remus wouldn't require such regular hospitalization for that. Would he?

"Just asthma; he refused to say anything else," Sirius confirms forlornly, sitting forward now and staring blankly at his knees, for the ceiling has failed him and perhaps the patch in his jeans will provide better conciliation.

"I wish I knew. Coughing is just too broad a symptom; it's too difficult to narrow down. Are you sure there are no other symptoms?" Lily presses. She knows she is pushing Sirius, but he has come to her for more than advice. She is a nurse, and so she is more useful to him than James or Peter or Marlene.

"Well, I caught him taking pills the morning I was there…" Sirius rubs his eyes forlornly. Lily can see his brain ticking over with the extreme effort it is taking for him to remember the tiniest details. "Oh, and he eats a lot. Like, _a lot_. I don't know how considering his cupboards are bare, but he eats like he's been starved all his life."

Lily straightens in her seat. "What does he eat, mostly?"

Sirius shrugs, pondering hard. "Chocolate, I'd say. He eats something like five bars of chocolate a day. I'm amazed he doesn't have diabetes just to cap it all," he says. "Oh! He takes a capsule twice a day with his lunch and a snack. And he mentioned once that he goes for walks in the morning and in the afternoon, though he didn't confide it happily."

Lily is silent for a long time, her brain practically smoking with the intensity of her thoughts. She has come to a couple of conclusions, but she suspects telling Sirius any of them will only stress him out even more. Nursing abilities aside, she knows better than to distress this boy any further. For now, she decides to say nothing. Instead, she offers him a cup of tea. If Lily can't fix it, then she'll be damned if a decent brew won't.

They sit in the kitchen, communicating through the tapping of their nails on the rims of the china and darting glances across each other's faces. Lily has never seen this Sirius before; frightened and unsure. She has known him to be nervous and afraid, but he has always been sure of himself, always one step ahead of his sufferings.

She remembers when he ran away from home at just sixteen with a black eye, two heavy trunks and a stack of records in his arms. He had been wild, deranged; a feral boy escaping the clutches of stiff-backed parents and alcohol-fuelled rages. Yet, even then, Sirius had not been vulnerable. Behind the tears in his eyes there had been a fiery determination to rebuild and to conquer and there had been an endless rebellion in his heart, ready to strike.

This Sirius is at last vulnerable; his feelings finally slipping though the tears in the fabric he has sewn around himself. He is so guarded and fearful of letting himself be driven by his emotions. His attitude is all airs and graces, but Lily has keen eyes and she has always looked passed his broad grins and clever gestures. Sirius is not cold-hearted – quite the opposite, in fact – he is just afraid to be hurt again, or worse, inflict damage unto others. He lopes with an easy elegance, but still his movements are careful and sincere, never causing pain if he knows it will leave a bruise.

Lily reaches across the table and takes Sirius' hand tenderly, for it is the best physical affection she can provide him with. His hands are soft, which astonishes her. Even when she thinks she has figured him out, Sirius never ceases to surprise her time and time again.

"What do I do, Lily?" he asks. It is a genuine question, and it breaks her heart to be unable to answer it. "How do I help someone who won't accept it?"

"I don't know," she admits sullenly.

She hears the jingle of keys being fitted into the lock of the front door and seconds later James saunters in, covered in car grease and attempting in vain to clean his glasses on his overalls.

"Lils, do you have that nifty spray you used to clean my –" the man stops, eyes swivelling from Sirius to Lily to their hands together on the table. Lily can see him calculating what he has just walked in on, piecing together every fragment of the puzzle, from the cups of tea to Sirius' miserable expression. A heartbeat later and he has jammed his glasses back on, smudged or not, switched on the kettle for another round of tea and is sitting at the table, eyes fixed intently on his best friend. "What's wrong?"

Sirius tells him while Lily makes more tea. She is almost grateful for her fiancé's rescue. She hates to experience such a tightly-wound, depressed Sirius. It is hard on her when she cannot console him. She feels hopeless and drained. Not James, though; he is always ready to be there for his best friend. Sirius might have always been one step ahead of his problems, but it was usually because James was pulling him along.

Lily has put dinner on the table; mashed potatoes, peas and corn, steak and gravy. The steam billows up into the lights and shrouds three furrow-browed boys - nearly men - at the dining table, all of them with pens in hands and noses in books. Peter arrived two hours previously as soon as James and Sirius made the collective decision to _do something_. Together they have narrowed Remus' symptoms down to what Lily had concluded earlier. She says nothing, however; this is something they have to do on their own.

Sirius looks odd in his reading glasses, concentrating hard and looking uncannily more related to James than ever. He is now scribbling down a long list, his typically neat handwriting a black mess of ink next to James' block lettering. The three boys swap notes and scraps of paper, working in sync like the cogs of a clock. You would think they were planning the downfall of the government, not the welfare of a new friend.

Lily serves them all dinner and for ten precious minutes they are distracted, hoovering down her meal quickly so that they can get back to their planning. She has not seen them work this hard since their final exams almost two years ago. James has not even changed out of his work clothes, his overalls half unbuttoned, hanging loosely at his hips around his t-shirt.

When the plates are practically licked clean, Lily clears the table. There is the usual mumble of appreciation and compliments to her wonderful cooking, but they are preoccupied to give concise responses. She smiles fondly at the three boys and retreats to the kitchen to clean the dishes. A few minutes later, James enters behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. His kisses her cheek and her neck and her collarbone until she at last cranes her neck back for a proper kiss. She brushes his nose with a wet glove and gives him an inquiring look.

"You're an absolutely spiffing cook, do you know that?" James croons.

"Well, you've gained about five pounds since we starting living together, so I must be doing something right," Lily jests, smiling as she puts a clean plate on the rack.

"I think Remus would really enjoy your cooking too," is all he says before kissing her again on the cheek and returning to his friends.

By the end of the night – which, to be exact, is actually one-thirteen in the morning – Lily has her fridge filled with several containers of soups, a bowl of pasta, a whole marinated chicken, and homemade sausage rolls. She also baked some scones and shortbread. Her kitchen is barren of ingredients and her eyes are heavy. She makes a mental note to buy more food to cook, says goodnight to the boys who are still working feverishly, and she retires to bed.

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital; how may I assist you?"

"Hi, my name is Sirius Black; I wanted to know if you have a Remus Lupin in your care? I would like to speak with him."

"Are you… family?"

"As good as."

"I'm sorry, but we aren't authorized to connect you to patients you aren't related to, sir."

"I understand – er – what was your name? I didn't quite catch it."

"Pardon?"

"I would just like to know your name. You might be getting a lot of calls from me in the future, so I might as well be courteous about it."

"E-Emmeline."

"Emmeline... Lovely. I suppose I'll try my luck again tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Oh, God. Er – Hold on, I'll put you through to Doctor Pomfrey."

"You're a gem, Emmeline."

"Hello?"

"Hi there, I was just wondering if I would be able to speak to Remus Lupin."

"I suppose so – hold on a minute, he's just come out of physio."

"Yes?" Remus' voice is oddly clear through the receiver. Sirius had expected it to be harsh and throaty and is taken aback at its eloquence.

"Hey, it's Sirius."

"Sirius? How did you find me?"

"This is the thirty-second hospital I've tried," Sirius admits ruefully. "How are you, Moony?"

"Mo-? Oh, er – I'm fine. Physiotherapy is a bit of a drain. What do you want?" Remus sounds cold again and Sirius does his best not to take it personally. He wishes he were there and not a broken signal through a piece of plastic.

"I just want to know if you'll still be coming to James and Lily's for lunch tomorrow afternoon," he says. He feels foolish now. Remus probably thinks him reckless.

"You called thirty-two hospitals just to see if I'll be coming to lunch?" Remus says incredulously.

"I hope you're not going to tell me I've wasted my time," Sirius teases.

"You haven't; I'll be there. I'm being discharged in a few hours," Remus already hums friendlier and Sirius tries to ignore the hammering in his chest.

"Great! Say, two o'clock?" he supplies.

"What's the address?"

"I'll pick you up."

"Okay." The two boys are silent for a moment and Sirius can hear nothing but the own thumping of his heart, warning him. He shuts it out firmly just as Remus continues; "Listen, Sirius, I never thanked you for what you did last Saturday. I-I am not in the habit of accepting charity but… thank you. It means a lot to me."

"Don't mention it. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" Sirius takes a deep breath. The plan is in motion now.

"Yes,"

"Feel better,"

"Thank you,"

Their farewells are met after another heavy silence and Sirius hangs up the phone, feeling slightly more wholesome than before. It has been quite a while since he actively helped someone. He wonders if maybe it is good to let his guard down sometimes. How could he ever regret anything this sweet?

He is the first to scramble out of James' Ford wagon, bouncing in his boots anxiously. Sirius gazes up at the looming block of flats, brick and mortar and bits of stray weeds between the cracks of the windows, thinking of Remus on the second floor, waiting to be collected.

"Sirius! Shake a leg!" Lily yells at him impatiently.

He complies swiftly to the boot as it is swung open, revealing the hard work of the four friends from the other night. It is crammed with all of Lily's generous cooking over the past two days and shopping bags containing various foods, including the entire gamut of vegetables, a selection of quality beers, and expensive chocolate. Even between Peter, Lily, James and Sirius, it is impossible to carry it all upstairs. Sirius slings as many bags on his arms as he can, ignoring the piercing pain in his forearms, and takes the platter of Lily's mashed potatoes in one hand and a bag of records in the order – the favour of lent books returned. He wobbles precariously, determined not to drop it all. Lily beams proudly at him.

They totter their way up the stairs, burdened with their mission. Twice Peter stops Sirius from toppling backwards and ruining their tireless work. Eventually they make it and James, who has wisely kept a hand free, knocks on the door. Sirius can feel his heart knocking with it.

When Remus answers the door, dressed handsomely in a blue sweater and his shabby dress shoes, he is at first unresponsive at the odd-looking party that has shown up at his door. Then, slowly, his eyebrows crease together, his mouth slack.

"Surprise!" Lily cries, breaking the gradually building tension and pushing her way passed Remus and into his kitchen. She navigates herself about the flat without effort, not that it is difficult. With five people now inside, Remus' home seems smaller than ever, all white walls and damaged furniture and shuffling feet.

Sirius grins at Remus and follows Lily with James and Peter at his heels. Remus stills says nothing, only gawks at the four of them in amazement as they carry an entire larder into his home.

"We thought we'd bring the lunch to you," Peter explains when Remus' expression still does not change.

"What?" Remus finally utters, closing the door slowly.

Sirius drops the shopping onto the dining table, takes the bag of records and skips, _skips_ over to Remus, throwing his arms around him tightly. Remus is stiff at first at the sudden contact, but returns the hug after some deliberation. It is as though their bodies are meant to fit together. Sirius has never hugged anyone taller than he is, and he finds it humbly agreeable. He resists the temptation that implies with being so close to Remus' neck and shoulders, but Remus is just so _soft_ and he smells _wonderful_.

When they break apart, Sirius notices that there are tears in Remus' eyes and he is trembling slightly. He turns away and coughs into the crook of his elbow gingerly and Sirius smirks kindly, clapping him on the shoulder. It is a strange action, however. Remus is not James.

"I brought you some records," Sirius indicates, handing Remus the bag of records. The boy peers inside curiously. "I thought I would reciprocate your lending of books. I might not be an avid reader, but you can count on me to listen to some good music."

"Padfoot, you're not going to get him into punk, are you?" James admonishes, hands on his hips at the clear distaste he holds for Sirius' music preferences. "Moony, tell me you're more tasteful than that."

"Oh, James, don't snub people for their music preferences," Peter pipes up from the shopping bags. "You're not cultured just because you like Bob Dylan."

"That's a fine thing for you to say, Pete! Sirius practically _vomited_ his music taste all over you! Bob Dylan used to be your favourite!" James folds his arms across his chest indignantly, feeling overruled, a position he is not accustomed to finding himself in.

"That was _before_ I listened to the Buzzcocks," Peter argues patiently. "Come on, let's go and get the rest of the food."

Lily is busying herself with heating up the chicken and stir fry while James and Peter remove themselves to retrieve the rest of the food from the car. Remus sits down at the dining table carefully, still clutching the records and staring at the act of friendship bustling around him. Sirius explores his eyes hungrily, searching for anything that might dictate some sort of thought process. When he finds nothing, he mentally digresses and reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the notes he has taken in class for Remus that week.

"And here are the notes for class," he says, handing them over. However, just as he does, Sirius remembers that for some irresponsibly inane reason, he had sprayed some of his cologne on the paper and smudged the ink. He had been meaning to re-write it all, but forgot completely in his excitement to help Remus in other ways.

Remus thanks him and unfolds them carefully, separating the pages with long fingers. Sirius' stomach does backflips and no-safety-net trapeze acts as Remus' eyebrows crinkle together again. He lifts the paper to his nose and inhales, takes a few seconds to cough, and shoots Sirius a curious stare. "Did you spray your cologne on this?" he deduces suspiciously.

"Thebottlemust'vebrokeninmybag," Sirius mumbles incoherently, fixating his attention on a chip in the wood of the table and firmly pretending he did _not_ see Lily discharge an amused look in his direction. He hastens to change the subject. "Well, what do you think?"

"You got all of this… for me?" Remus finally says in astonishment, his eyes wavering over the immense amount of grocery shopping and pre-cooked food in his kitchen.

"Of course," Lily answers, smiling generously. She takes a few steps over and kisses Remus on the forehead sweetly. Sirius rubs a strange ache in his chest, wishing he had permission to do that too. "Sirius told us about you living all on your own, and we wanted to help."

"I – I don't know what to say. I didn't ask – I didn't need –" Remus starts, but Sirius impulsively puts a hand over his, simultaneously hating himself for not thinking over such behaviour and wanting to hold Remus' hand all the tighter. It feels like the right sort of action now; this is how he wants to touch Remus.

"I – _We_ wanted to make sure you were comfortable," Sirius interrupts quietly, looking down at their hands on the table nervously. Lily is watching, too, but neither of them notices. "You didn't even have milk when I visited last week; I worry about you."

Remus pulls his hands away, straightening uneasily in his chair. "I don't need people to worry about me," he says harshly. Sirius can see the sternness of the boy he had met two months ago returning, a solid wall reasserting itself between them. "I'm not your concern, Sirius."

Sirius is vaguely aware that Lily has crept from the kitchen and out the door in retreat, and a small part of him wishes she would stay to support him, but he knows this his battle to win. His eyes are fixed on Remus' ever-changing expressions, his heart pounding like a painful drum trying to scream at the world. _Why doesn't he understand?_

"I care about you, Remus," he pleads, taking Remus' hands again urgently. "I know you never wanted to be friends with me but I'm here now and you have to let me help you."

"I can take care of myself," Remus says doggedly, watching their hands with a troubled expression.

"You told me your condition was fatal; how else am I supposed to react? I can't just sit here and wait for you to die because there was no one around to help you when you needed it." Sirius is growing desperate now. He was never good at sharing his feelings and his mentality is being sorely tested. His need to help Remus is overwhelming and he is unsure of how to prove it to him without bursting into tears.

"I don't like accepting charity," Remus snaps icily, tugging his hands away again with finality. "You people don't owe me anything and now I am in your debt. I am not helpless, regardless of my financial situation."

_You people_. Sirius hates the way Remus said it. _We're your friends._

"Is that how you see the world; a battle between debt and charity? We're _your friends,_ Remus; you owe us _nothing._ We're only giving you what you deserve. It's not charity, it's what friends do!"

Remus stiffens at this and Sirius realizes why he is being so incorrigible; he doesn't recognize what they are doing. Remus hasn't had any proper friends before, and now he is being overcome with them, and Sirius feels senseless and ill-favoured and just generally like a total arse for not being more attentive. He quickly backpedals.

"We just want to be there for you; everyone needs someone, Moony, even you,"

In his chaotic, albeit short, existence, Sirius has only ever been properly surprised once, maybe twice. His best friend is James Potter, after all; if there will be any surprises or shocking revelations, it will be from the mouth and befuddled brain of that berk and even then, Sirius is very often on the same wavelength and giving some equally astonishing input. So it is a _great_ surprise to Sirius when Remus abruptly throws himself forward, closes the gap between their chairs, and with a clutter of records on the floor, kisses Sirius full on the mouth.

Well, sort of. It is a clumsy collision of noses and foreheads first. Remus' execution was somewhat off-point, but Sirius instinctively recovers him while manoeuvring passed personal shock. He eagerly returns the kiss, ensuring there is no discrepancy between them.

Sirius deepens the kiss unconsciously, hungry and keen, his comprehension becoming ever clearer as he tilts his head upwards against Remus' lips. Remus tastes curiously sweet; _sugar_, is all Sirius can discernibly think as his hands wander to places he feels they have every right to be. Remus' fingers brush the nape of his neck as he bites down on Sirius' lip gently and at last Sirius pulls completely through the surprise of being kissed and decides that he likes it a great deal more than hugging.

James, Lily and Peter return and the kiss is not spoken of and no one mentions the fact that Sirius' hair has been ripped out of its bun and Remus' face is a striking shade of pink at the nose, ears and mouth. Sirius watches as he chews his lips nervously and resists the urge to kiss him again as he absolutely falls once more in love with his favourite portrait of Remus; pink and flustered. James and Peter mercifully notice nothing, but Lily does, and she smirks at Sirius, who sends her a warning glare. While Remus assists James and Peter with storing all the food in the fridge and pantry, Sirius goes to Lily with the intention of helping her with the chicken, though it is very obvious he is not needed.

"I see you got through to him," she mutters audaciously, opening the preheated oven and sliding the chicken inside to cook.

Sirius scowls and finds a frying pan to cook the stir fry. He hands it to her. "Me?!" he exclaims under his breath, glancing at Remus. Their eyes meet and Remus smiles, looking away shyly. "It was him!"

Lily's eyes widen at this and her mouth forms a lovely half-moon shape in amazement. "Well, Mr Black, I see you've finally met your match," she declares artfully, igniting the gas and banging the frying pan on top. "What did you say?"

"I just said we were here for him," Sirius says, still bemused at the turn of events.

"So he decided to snog you?"

He shrugs uselessly and takes over the cooking while Lily upends the kitchen in search of plates and knives and forks. She attempts to set the small dining table, but discovers there is only enough room for two people, not five. She bits her thumbnail fretfully, looking around. Sirius knows she does not wish to ask Remus after a larger table, or more chairs, come to think of it. However, to his relief, she uncovers a better idea. Clearing the coffee table in the lounge room, she centres it on the old rug and shifts the armchair out of the way. She says nothing to Remus and begins to place the plates and cutlery on the low table. Sirius admires her humility.

They feast on Lily's cooking half an hour later, sitting on the floor. Chipped plates piled high with her chicken, stir fry and mashed potatoes, the small party huddle around the coffee table, nursing beers and talking loudly. Sirius remembers his records and fetches them from the floor of the kitchen. He unearths Remus' gramophone from the cupboard underneath the television and puts on the Ramones, much to James' displeasure.

"Hey! Isn't that mine?" Peter says irritably, glaring at Sirius.

"Does it matter?" he quips, batting Peter away from the vinyl and sitting back down next to Remus. Their feet touch on the floor, knees bumping. Sirius resists the heaving in his chest as his heart growls with pleasure. He attempts a distraction. "Lily; passed the potatoes, won't you?"

This is how the afternoon unfolds; in solidarity and warmth. Every word a progressive consequence and every silence unwelcome in these walls. Sirius' heart soars at every one of Remus' smiles and laughs when Remus laughs. It is these sorts of affections Sirius Black could ever hope for and never dream of living without. He knows there are important things to worry about, like school and bills and war, but there is nothing more wonderful than the gregarious comfort of friends, and there is nary a thing more important to him.

Jokes are relayed and memories of pranks from boarding school recounted until sides are splitting with merriment, Peter's fist against the table and James legs over his head on the floor as they howl and hoot with laughter. And Remus doubled over, simultaneously coughing and laughing, tears in his eyes, his breathing laboured with the strain before he stops breathing entirely.

Silence reigns, heavy against the heat of the dying mirth. Sirius is the first to react, remembering he had seen Remus' inhaler on the kitchen bench. He throws himself across the couch, reaching over the bench, the hard wood pressing against his ribs painfully as he snatches the inhaler and throws it to Lily, who catches it easily. She shakes it furiously and fits it to Remus' mouth just as the boy is beginning to fade, his face pale and his eyes rolling in the back of his head in the desperate attempt to breathe.

The inhaler is empty.

Sirius' blood runs cold at the sight of horror flickering across Lily's face. Remus' eyes are unfocused, his pupils dilated to three times their size in sheer panic. Sirius can feel his heart throbbing like a ticking clock against his ribs, counting down the seconds as Remus lands with a heavy thud to the ground, gasping for air.

_No. No. No. Please. Not again._

"Don't just stand there!" Lily screams, her voice distantly piercing Sirius' subconscious. She is helping Remus to sit up, lifting up his arms to expand his lungs. "Call nine-nine-nine!"

The hospital glows eerie white in the pale of the moon outside, ominous and full against the inky black of the night sky. Sirius has been in the waiting room for six hours doing exactly what it is there for; waiting – legs jerking and eyes twitching, flickering at every movement at the door, much like a dog yearning for a walk. He braids his hair to distract himself and he reads all the tabloid magazines from three years ago. He learns a Do-It-Yourself bedside table, outdoor dining set and lamp in the space of two hours with no intention of building any of them. He tries to sleep but the sterile smell of the hospital keeps him awake with a headache behind his eyes. He does anything to keep his mind off Remus, yet nothing prevails.

He thinks of the kiss and he licks his lips tentatively as an aching hunger fills his bones. It is cliché, Sirius knows, but he has never felt this way about anyone before. Sirius never thought one boy could bring about so much change in him in just two short months. And who is Sirius to deny himself such desire? He is aware that perhaps Remus needs him more than he needs Remus, but Sirius is suddenly conscious of the fact that if Remus were not so sickly and Sirius hadn't the feeling of duty to take care of him, he would still want everything to do with that quaint boy in sweaters.

Soon, famine finds Sirius in the small, 24-hour café on the ground floor of St. Bartholomew's. He buys himself coffee and a sandwich and when he returns to the waiting room, he finds Lily at the reception desk, talking quietly to the plump woman with horn-rimmed spectacles. They exchange a few words and the receptionist nods slowly and redirects Lily to a door on the right. Sirius catches her eye, shooting her a quizzical glance, but she only shrugs and disappears down the hall. He wonders why James is not with her.

She returns half an hour later, pale and her lip bleeding from chewing it too hard. She sits down next to Sirius and rubs her face tiredly before resting her head on his shoulder. Her red hair is vibrant against the black of his jacket and he can smell the fruity essence of her shampoo and a sweet perfume on her wrists and neck, aged from a long day of being worn. She is still wearing the pretty blue dress from earlier that afternoon, now adorned with a grey shawl around her shoulders. There is a run in her pantyhose from when she caught them on the door of the ambulance, saying goodbye to Remus and Sirius as they departed for the hospital.

"Have you seen Remus yet?" she asks, breaking the silence of the waiting room.

Sirius shakes his head miserably, looking down at Lily on his shoulder. She sighs and tilts her head up to face him, eyes searching his. They both of them are ravenous for answers neither can provide. Sirius feels oddly protective of her, wondering where she had gone in those thirty minutes and why the sparkle in her eyes now resembles flickering candle instead.

He drapes an arm around her, kissing the top of her head affectionately. Even Lily needs to be cared for sometimes, her fierce protectiveness of other people drowning the thought to look after herself. Sirius is desperate to be mindful of someone other than himself, to think about someone else's problems, so he motions for Lily to lie down on the waiting room chairs and he braids her long hair and hums quietly and does not think of Remus.

Peter and James arrive several minutes later and Lily extends a hand to her fiancé, their fingers touching, thoughts connected. Sirius watches gloomily as James kneels down and kisses Lily and strokes back the loose strands of her hair, a warm look in his eyes that Sirius has only recently become familiar with. He longs for Remus; to know that same link and to feel the same passion and to look at him that way too.

James whispers something to Lily that even Sirius cannot hear and she sits up from his lap, fingers trembling, eyes watering as she submits to a stiff nod. James brings his head forward against her knees, glasses askew, teeth against his lips. Sirius wonders if he will start cry, but there is a small crease between his eyebrows and it is without sorrow or trouble. It tells Sirius of something different. He exchanges a glance with Peter, who has sat himself down to Sirius' left. Peter elbows him, urging the question that is both on their minds.

"What's happened?" Sirius whispers to the couple beside him.

Lily looks up from her fingers which have entangled themselves in James' messy hair. Her eyes glisten with tears; ones that cannot be mistaken for misery.

"I'm pregnant," she says.

Sirius hardly comprehends it as Peter throws himself off his chair and embraces the couple, uttering congratulations. Sirius cups a hand to his mouth, overwhelmed and amazes. Even through such hardship, there can still be joy. He wraps his arms around Lily and she laughs throatily, tears welling to the point of escaping. This is what Sirius lives for; this is how he measures his life.

Bristling with new optimism from the news, he goes to the receptionist for the fifth time that afternoon and asks after Remus. She checks her clipboard, makes a phone call, and at last she admits him through the doors to the left. Sirius looks back at his friends, wondering if they will accompany him, but they only wave him onwards without them, for this is his happy ending, and they will see him at its conclusion.

He finds Remus in the third ward on the right. The walls here are white as well, burning Sirius' eyes in the lamplight and making sickness in the hospital fester. Remus is sitting up against two pillows in a hospital cot, steeping a mug of tea contently. Sirius' heart imitates a small drum solo for Remus looks oddly normal; it is as though the past six hours have not happened and that he is in hospital for a stomach ache or the flu. Six hours and Sirius feels he hadn't any reason to wait, but wait he had.

Remus looks up as he approaches, eyes blinking bemusedly at the dark-haired boy who had not been expected to stay. Sirius does not know it, but his features are pallid and his hair is curling at the ends from unrest and the knot between his dark eyebrows is so prominent it is in danger of giving him premature wrinkles. His stomach lurches and his heart pounds, crying out pitifully like a squawking lark just to reach out and hold Remus.

"You're back," is all Remus says, clutching his hands around the hospital mug for warmth. His toes wiggle at the end of the bed in patched brown socks and Sirius is momentarily amused at how inconveniently tall Remus is.

"I never left," Sirius returns, sitting down in the armchair beside the bed shakily, not daring to take his eyes off the boy in front of him should he start convulsing again. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, his skin tight and grey against his cheekbones. Sirius feels if he looks away, Remus will stop breathing again; stop existing, even.

"Sirius, I've been here for six hours," Remus says, eyes wide and a quirk in his eyebrow.

"I wanted to make sure you're okay." He hopes Remus will understand now; understand Sirius' need to look after him.

"I'm okay."

"I thought you were going to die," Sirius chokes out, fighting back tears. _Stupid tears, _he thinks. _Childish. _He digs his nails into the palm of his hands.

"I only suffered a bit of oxygen starvation," Remus assures, sipping his tea pensively. Sirius hates his nonchalance in such a nerve-wracking situation. "Doctor Pomfrey has given me a new supply of inhalers and she told me to be more careful."

Sirius hangs his head dejectedly, sighing. He wishes now he had forced himself to read the books in the library he had only skimmed through. Perhaps he would know what to tell Remus; he would know how to express his feelings and let down his guard and use words to convey meaning instead of just mindless dribble.

He hunts through the recesses of his mind for something, _anything_ that will adequately let Remus know how he feels.

"Come and live with me," is all he manages. His stomach practically swallows itself as soon as the words tumble out.

"What?"

Sirius is sure this time. "Come and live with me," he repeats.

Remus only stares at him, confused and shocked. Sirius doesn't know how else to ensure that he is sincere so he resorts to silence, letting the proposal embitter the hospital walls.

"Sirius, I can't –"

"Why not?" he interrupts almost angrily, overcome with the urge to hit something for Remus' heartbreaking self-loathing. "Remus, you need someone with you. What if something like this happens again and no one is around to help you? What happens if your mum calls you in the morning and you don't pick up the phone?"

Sirius expects Remus to become heated, but he exudes no emotion. He just sits there, balancing on a cracking equilibrium, the light shifting in and out of his eyes. When he says nothing, Sirius continues;

"You can't spend the rest of your life waiting to die and I don't want to sit back and watch you take each breath, wondering which one will be your last,"

"And then what?" Remus finally snaps. His eyes glare dangerously at Sirius. "What good am I to you, Sirius, in your home where I will be an inconvenience? This is why I don't make friends; people care too much about things that aren't their business."

"You won't be an inconvenience," Sirius mutters meekly, trying to find some strength in his words. "Please? I want you with me, Remus. If not for your sickness, do it for me. Even if you were well, I would still ask this of you."

For a long while Remus still does not speak and Sirius grows tense with apprehension and worry. He wonders if perhaps he spoke too boldly. He cannot read Remus now; there is nothing to read.

"You know I want to say yes," he finally submits. He rubs his face dolefully, exhaustion now more prominent on his features. "But Sirius, you must understand… I don't – I'm not…"

Sirius does not let him continue, for the hesitant 'yes' is enough confirmation to make him stand up and crush his lips against Remus', finally allowing himself to indulge in the luxury of touching him and feeling the weight on his chest being released. He runs his fingers through Remus' hair, feeling the gentle tresses against his skin. Sirius kisses him softly, eagerly, opening himself up completely, feeling strangely at home surrounded by white walls.

It is several minutes before they break apart. Or perhaps it is several years; Sirius cannot tell – his perception of time is altered and foggy. He is aware only of the kisses he exchanges with the boy in front of him, tender with desire and hunger, each kiss making up for the last for it never feels like enough. He wants to learn the thousands of ways to kiss Remus Lupin.

The small noise of someone clearing their throat breaks them from their reverie. Remus and Sirius look to the door of the ward and see Peter standing not two metres away, shuffling on his feet awkwardly, his face slightly pink at the sight of them. He clears his throat again.

"P-Prongs and Evans are wondering if we can all come in yet," he squeaks, unable to control the wide grin playing at his lips. Next to Sirius, Remus is giggling, his eyes crinkling at the corners sweetly. Sirius smirks, feeling warmer now in the company of his friends. Peter continues, looking down at his feet; "I'll tell them to wait, shall I?"

"They can come in," Remus tells him through his laughter. Sirius does all he can not to cup his face again and shower him with more kisses at the sound of it.

Peter gestures down the hall and the footsteps of Lily and James soon follow his beckoning. They appear at the door with curious glances on their handsome faces. Lily bounds forward, planting a kiss on Remus' forehead and fluffing his pillow affectionately. She does not hesitate to climb onto the bed and nestle herself at his feet, beaming at his quick recovery.

"Will you be staying here much longer?" she asks as James and Peter make themselves comfortable around Sirius who is sitting on the only armchair available to them. Peter promptly takes up the armrest closest to the bed and James throws himself on top of Sirius, ignoring his friends' disgruntled protests.

"Doctor Pomfrey says I'm to be discharged in the morning. She's done all the tests, but she's adamant I spend the night here," Remus replies. He casts an eye to Sirius, their eyes meeting for a brief second of silent communication.

"Wisely so," Lily agrees.

"I say we take a vote for round two," Peter puts forth, adjusting himself on the arm of the chair. "As far as lunches are supposed to go, it didn't really live up to the usual expectations."

"Here, here!" James and Sirius cry in unison.

"Next weekend!" Lily supplies. "And we can do it at our place."

"We should invite Marlene and Mary, and Alice and Frank, too!" Peter cuts in.

"We can play football in the back yard!" suggests James eagerly.

"What do you say?" Sirius motions to Remus, who is sitting dumbstruck, a look of astonishment on his face.

He dithers, thinking carefully, watching the impatient and zealous faces of his new friends. "Well, I haven't any other engagements," he says slowly, smiling.

Sirius shares a smile with Remus. For now he is content to wait out the next few days, but already in his mind Sirius has arranged for Remus to have moved in by the end of the week. He will look forward to it, he thinks, because now he has something with which to pass the time. It is now more than just an entertained idea, it is fact and it is real and it is something Sirius can touch and feel and hold. It is not dry and dusty like the pages of the books he cannot read, it is solid and fundamental and it is how he measures his life.


	4. Epilogue: Something New

Sirius fidgets nervously in his tuxedo, tugging at the collar, clasping and unclasping the cufflinks in the shirtsleeves. His hair is freshly trimmed, short now at his shoulders and his chin is professionally clean-shaven. He has not indulged in such luxuries since he was a teenager and still living with his mother and father who hadn't approved of his shaggy hair and roguish scowls.

Damp grass squelches beneath his shoes as he walks through the damp heat of June, the after-math of last night's storm lingering in the air like a heavy cloak. He approaches an aging cathedral, its towers and spires regal and its stained-glass windows blinking stories at him through the buttresses of grey brick and mortar and the integrity of religion. He has not been to a church for years and it makes him feel uneasy, for it was another lifetime ago when he had stepped through doors such as these.

Entering the cathedral, Sirius is greeted by a clergyman and event planners bustling about arranging the last of the flowers and bannisters. He finds James' mother squawking commands and fussing over the state of the seats. She acknowledges Sirius, but they do not linger in each other's company, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts.

The hall is attractively decorated in a burst of reds and whites and pinks glowing and laughing in the morning sun. Garlands of blushing roses and Calla Lilies adorn the bannisters alongside the chapel seats. The fragrance is strong and it takes Sirius a moment to adjust his senses to it. Down the centre aisle of the church sits a wide, white wrought iron archway embellishing the same flowers. Sirius' heart leaps to his mouth, knowing that that is where he will give away his best friend.

He tries not to think of it as barter; trading a man for an altered replica, but Sirius cannot help but feel forlornly of James and Lily getting married, for now his best friend will have a new best friend, and Sirius will be left to wander through his life alone, with only a brother, but no longer a comrade with which to cause mischief and conduct mayhem.

Well, perhaps not entirely alone.

He returns to Mrs Potter and inquires after the bride and groom and she says that one is to the left door of the chapel, the other to the right. Sirius ventures immediately to the right where James is, but changes his mind and goes left. He unbolts a heavy wooden door and moves beyond a lavishly wreathed reception hall to another door. He knocks tentatively until he is admitted.

Mary, Marlene and Alice circle Lily in a flurry of chatter and make up and jewellery in a small room lit by a high chapel window. There is a chaise lounge and a small table with a bottle of champagne. Lily sits before a vanity in a white dress robe, her face pale, but her hands steady as she applies a coat of mascara to her already long lashes, wiggling the brush cautiously. Sirius is taken by her, for while Lily has always been beautiful, on her wedding day her beauty stands solitary in its comparison. Her long red hair tumbles out over shoulders, the front of it pinned back elegantly to reveal her startling eyes which blink up at Sirius' appearance, green and gold and glowing. She smiles amiably, her face lighting up like the dawn.

"Sirius! I always forget how fetching you can look in a tux," she croons merrily, setting down the mascara. Alice is fussing about with a long lace veil, attempting to attach it properly to Lily's hair.

"You're quite stunning in that dressing gown, yourself," Sirius returns slyly, grinning at her.

"It just won't sit!" Alice moans furiously, throwing up her hands, the veil fluttering through the air sadly. It is extremely long; Sirius guesses it will trail the ground. "You've made a disaster of your veil by having your hair down, Lily."

"Stop stressing her out, Alice!" Marlene bickers impatiently, adjusting her dress, which is similar to Alice and Mary's gentle cornflower blue ones, but extravagantly donned with a lace bolero and a mother-of-pearl necklace to commemorate her position as Maid of Honour. Sirius thinks she looks very handsome, her long blonde hair pulled back into a low bun, short tendrils framing her face. She smiles quaintly at him, catching him staring before he averts his gaze back to Lily.

"Here," he gestures, moving towards her. He reaches inside the breast pocket of his tux and draws out a silver box about the size of his hand, neatly topped with a bow. He sets in on the vanity. "A wedding gift; perhaps it will help."

Curiously, Lily tugs at the bow and lifts the lid of the box to reveal two silver hairpins encrusted with sparkling sapphires and diamonds. They glint and laugh in the light of the dressing room.

"Oh, Sirius," she gasps, lifting a now trembling hand to touch them. She scrambles out of her chair and throws herself against him weightily for someone so small, thanking him generously and planting a forceful kiss against his cheek, living a pale lipstick print.

"They were my cousin's," Sirius explains as she examines a hairpin wondrously. "She wore them on her wedding day, and before that they were my aunt's, and before that my grandmother's. I think they were passed down to me in the hope that one day I too would see a future wife walk down the aisle, but under the circumstances I think they are better served in your favour; and they match your earrings."

Lily kisses Sirius on the cheek again sweetly, tears welling in her eyes from the sentiment. Sirius feels slightly uncomfortable at her display of emotions and scratches his nose awkwardly, wondering how to ease the building tension. The bride sits back down and Alice proceeds to secure the veil to Lily's long tresses with the hair pins.

"They look very old," she comments, inspecting one with a trained eye.

"A few hundred years, I fear," Sirius says.

"That means you have something old! And something blue, apart from us," Mary says delightfully, clapping her hands together. When Sirius gives her a quizzical glance, she elaborates; "We only have something borrowed; Lily's veil is her grandmother's."

"Doesn't that count for something old?" Sirius asks.

Mary shakes her head. "She has to return it after the wedding; her grandmother wants all her granddaughter's to wear it. Lily's the second so far."

"Who was first?"

"My sister," Lily replies. "She got married two years ago and was absolutely livid when she had to wear it. She hated the design on the lace and it clashed horribly with her gown, but I was clever and chose mine to match the veil. I personally think it's lovely."

"Oh, I've never met your sister," Sirius says enthusiastically. "Will she be here today?"

"Unfortunately," Lily says bitterly. "Mum said to make her a bridesmaid, but I wasn't hers and we barely speak, so I don't see that working out to anyone's favour. Actually, where is mum? She's been gone for a while."

"I'll go find her," Marlene offers. She pauses to remove her high heels, flashing Sirius a gracious smile.

"How's James?" Lily questions nervously, chewing her lip.

Sirius shrugs. "I haven't seen him yet," he says.

"Get out of here, then!" Lily cries kindly as Alice finishes with her veil. She makes a final adjustment and Lily stands once more, approaching Sirius. She hugs him tightly and kisses him again before he departs for James' room.

On the other side of the church, the dressing room is a replica of Lily's; chaise lounge, champagne and all. Peter and Remus are already there. Sirius enters and is immediately tackled by his best friend. James shudders with nerves and then grabs Sirius by the face, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "I am making a huge mistake," he howls. "She doesn't deserve me, Sirius!"

"Fucking hell."

"He's been like this for almost an hour," Peter clarifies, rubbing his eyes grievously.

"And rightly so!" James blubbers. His hair is a mess of black and grease and his tie has come undone. "I should bail now and save her years of sorrow. I can't make her happy."

"I should bail now and save _myself_ years of sorrow," says Sirius coldly, pulling his face away from James' hands and taking him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Get a grip on yourself. She couldn't want for a better husband. You spent _years_ chasing after her, and you're going to get cold feet _now_? Where's your sense of chivalry? Where's your Potter courage? Since when are you one to deny yourself something you want?"

James sniffles for a moment, his shoulders slumped like a woeful stump. "I s'pose you're right. I mean, if she didn't want to marry me, she wouldn't be here, right?"

"Right! Now, fix your tie, comb your hair, and go meet your future wife in that church because she's nearly ready and they'll be admitting guests soon and you have to greet them."

"You've seen her?" James cries, straightening himself in front of Sirius, eyes hungry for answers.

"She looks beautiful, mate. She's really excited," he says gently, fixing James' tie.

James takes a deep breath, composing himself. It amuses Sirius how easily his best friend is mollified by his presence. Peter had never been capable of controlling James' theatrics, which were disastrous and frequent in their occurrences. Sirius was always sought to handle the matter. James is his brother, whether by blood or not, and it is Sirius' duty to be there for him.

James turns to the mirror behind him and proceeds to comb his hair messy hair with perfectionist precision. Sirius goes to Remus, who is sitting on the chaise lounge, watching the havoc around him. He looks desperately attractive in his tuxedo, which Sirius had been insistent on purchasing so he had something adequate to wear for the big day. It is superbly tailored to his tall build and Sirius' stomach does backflips at the sight of him, his chest purring. He sits downs and rests his head on Remus shoulder.

"Are you nervous?" Remus asks, his lips against Sirius' hair. He can feel Remus' breath against his scalp and their fingers interlock unconsciously, together at last after only a few hours apart. Sirius closes his eyes, savouring the warmth and the affection like he is storing oxygen to breathe.

"Me? Why should I be nervous?" Sirius returns, trying to hide the fact that he actually is. It is not his big day, and so he feels it is not his place to be nervous, but he'll be damned if he can find himself with a level head at this time. He is losing his best friend forever, though he condemns himself frequently for thinking of it as such.

"You're the best man; you have a duty to uphold,"

"My only duty is to get this berk into that church without any emotional breakdowns. I always knew he would be a mess on his wedding day, but I didn't think I'd actually get to witness it first-hand." Sirius opens his eyes and keeps them on James, wary of his friend doing something drastic again. He currently is heckling Peter for more hair grease, but the other boy his shaking his head emphatically, adamant in saying that if James uses any more, the mop on his head will be more product than hair.

A knock on the door interrupts the chaos and Mrs Potter enters, declaring it is time for the groom and the best man to greet the guests. James corrects his posture tensely and motions to Sirius who does not leave without kissing Remus long and hard, knowing it will be a few hours before he can do so again. He leaves Remus pink-faced and smirking, a new sense of valour restored in him.

There are a lot of guests. Sirius stands at the doors of the church with James and shakes hands with people he knows and people he does not know and all the while he wishes he were back in the dressing room with Remus. It is only now that he realizes how many people were precisely on the guest list. A hundred and seven hadn't really given the correct impression of such an extensive amount of people. Sirius only consoles himself with the fact that, if this were his wedding, there would be at least four times as many people thanks to his extended family and their extended family and the extended family's friends.

Inside the church, the guests amble between the aisles, finding their assigned seats and greeting old friends. James invited various classmates from their boarding school days and so there are a great number of shrieks in the delight of seeing a fellow peer after so many years. Sirius' cheeks are beginning to ache from so much smiling. He sees Remus and Peter positioned by the podium at the front of the church, Peter waving at various people and grinning. Remus looks anxious to be around so many strangers and Sirius wants to hold his hand and give him courage to remain composed, but he waits until all the guests are seated and eagerly awaiting the beginning of the ceremony. Sirius takes his position at the front of the chapel next to James. He brushes hands with Remus for comfort, gracing him with a small smile.

James is agitated, every extremity moving, twitching. He licks his lips over and over and makes small, panicky noises. The church begins to quiet, soft whispers of excitement reverberating against the walls. James looks to Sirius for some sort of solace and is returned with a thumbs up and a grin, as is Sirius' way of handling his friend during his jitters. He wishes he knew a way to console James and tell him everything would be all right while simultaneously making light of the situation, but his quick-wit fails him in this respect and as the audience finally falls completely silent, he feels his heart thump with a similar anxiety.

The organ begins to sound, a looming vibration of change and anticipation. Down the aisle, Alice and Mary follow a pretty flower girl tossing pink rose petals along the carpet. Marlene is close behind their procession. She smiles at Sirius and takes her place to James' distant right next to her friends. The ring bearer trails her, a small boy slightly on edge and gripping the pillow so tightly Sirius wonders if he won't tear out the stuffing. He situates himself in front of Sirius, taking deep breaths. Sirius is reminded of Remus and that painful shortness of breath and constant apprehension. He places a hand on the boys' shoulder as a form comfort for a second and the boy relaxes.

The organ begins to play a slow wedding march and James is taking deeper breaths than the ring bearer. Sirius is astounded to see his friend in such an emotional state. This is a boy who has always been sure of his decisions, always pulling Sirius along in the wake of his mischief and ploys and pranks and games. James was the initiator; he fulfilled his duties and needs and always got what he wanted whether it was through prior planning or sheer luck or irritating determination. But who was once just a boy is now becoming a man, facing the biggest decision of his life, for now it is too late to walk away. Sirius knows James' nerves are purely out of self-doubt, but he prays the git does not leave Lily at the alter because of it. While James had been born with brainless willpower and courage, he was ridden with enough insecurity to throw it all into the water.

Clutching the arm of her father, Lily appears at the end of the aisle, her gown a brilliant vision of ivory and lace, her face masked by the long veil which is held by a small girl behind her. She is carrying an enormous bouquet of so many flowers Sirius can name only several. But he does not notice the way Lily's walk is elegant and poise, or that a small bump at her stomach can be seen through the folds of white and lace. He notices instead the expression on her face through the marring of the veil and she is radiating confidence and grace and he can see that she has never been surer of anything in her life.

Sirius casts his gaze to James and his best friend is no longer shaking, no longer moving. His eyes are fixed on Lily, tears welling up behind his glasses as she walks down the aisle. They smile at each other and Sirius knows they cannot see anyone else in the room. He is happy now, for Sirius realizes he is not losing his best friend, but gaining a sister. He gave her something old and something blue, and now Lily will be returning the gift with something new.

The ceremony is long, but Sirius feels it was dreadfully short. So captivated is he by their whispered vows and silent touches that he is taken unawares when they kiss and the entire chapel bursts into a deafening applause. Sirius whoops with the guests, cheering and whistling and grabbing Remus to spin him around in an attempt to expel his sudden energy.

Lily seizes James' hand and they run back down the aisle together, laughing and grinning, followed by the teeming crowd of friends and family. Outside they are bombarded with rice and the remainder of the rose petals and Sirius hitches Lily up and twirls her around, embracing her and James and feeling at home again in a place he does not belong. _Something new_, he thinks, beaming around at his friends. He beckons to Remus and snatches Peter by the collar of his suit and they pose for the first photo together.

Sirius has a copy of the photo in his flat. It sits atop the mantel of the fireplace and not a day goes by when he does not look at it. When Remus goes to the hospital for check-ups and physiotherapy, Sirius visits him and he leaves the photo on the bedside table so that Remus always knows he has friends who care for him.

Sirius understands that perhaps he will never get the chance to marry the person he loves like James and Lily did, but he pays the thought little concern, for he and Remus made their own secret vows, in sickness and in health; in joy and in despair. But mostly joy, for he does not wish to linger on despair. The long, aching silences of the hospital ward bear no weight against the heated tremor in the bedroom, or the sweet Sunday mornings of coffee and freshly baked scones. Sirius knows there are plenty of things to despair over; tiny, insignificant things that he abandons beneath the bed in the shadows of his nightmares. Things like grumpy landlords and the stress of exams and the fact that he does not see James anymore. But the landlord like brownies and Remus bakes the best and exams will come and ago and a new year will begin and James and Lily will be back from their honeymoon soon. Despair does not come without the promise of happiness, so while Sirius knows he does not have until the end of his life with Remus, he takes comfort in the fact that Remus has until the end of his life with him.

The world is full of heartache and pain, but Sirius ignores it all. He wakes in the middle of the night, troubled and restless, and he rolls over in bed and feels Remus wrapped in the sheets barely inches away. In the few short months they have lived together, Sirius was finally able to learn the thousands of ways to kiss Remus and discover that there is still a thousand more. He comes to fathom the feeling of no cold patches in the bed and the smell of sweets in Remus' sweaters and how to prevent an attack of asthma without the use of an inhaler. He knows the difference between Remus' chronic coughs and his flu coughs and he picks up on Remus' reading consistencies and the discrepancies in his handwriting when they sit together in Gender Studies. Sirius no longer waits for anything, because there is nothing left for him to ponder. He is not impatient for something new, because he lives a novel experience every day.

And this is how Sirius measures his life, not with a thunderous applause, but with the quiet turning pages of a book; a book he helped write and create. A book he can finally read.


End file.
